When the land was heavy with sorrow,
And the songs of the people were drowned by the cries of the fallen,
The Native people did not rise with strength alone—
They rose with heart, and they rose with the bear.
The bear was not just a creature of the forest,
It was the spirit of the Earth itself.
No walls could cage it,
Only the deep connection to the land.
They speak of bears roaming through the mist,
Not from the hunter’s hand, but from the pulse of the Earth.
Upon their backs, the wisdom of the ancestors rode,
Stepping through the seasons with quiet strength, like the mountain that remembers the wind.
One warrior fell in battle,
But his bear did not turn away.
It stood beside him, undisturbed by time,
Until the tribe came to bring him home,
To the circle of his people, to the land of his ancestors.
Since that time, the bear is not seen as a creature of power,
But as the pulse of the Earth itself—steady, unshaken.
A pulse that cannot be stopped,
For it is not just strength,
But patience, wisdom, and the quiet endurance of a people who will never break.
